


Sunrise over the Rhine

by amoama



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bring Back The Porn Challenge, F/F, F/M, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama
Summary: Andromache meets a young vibrant warrior woman in the lands East of the Rhine. When Saxa is captured by Romans, Andromache follows, tracing her to the camp of a group of rebel slaves. Andromache and Saxa explore their bond with two sexy former gladiators, Gannicus and Oenomaus, and hope to heal the rift between the two men. You know, in a sexy way. (Because the fic is mostly sex.)Written for the Bring Back the Porn Challenge 2020 on IJ/DW.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Oenomaus, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Saxa, Gannicus/Saxa, Oenomaus/Saxa/Gannicus/Andy | Andromache of Scythia
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14
Collections: Bring Back The Porn Challenge





	Sunrise over the Rhine

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @Lilithilien for the pairing prompt and for looking it over as well! <333

It begins on the banks of the Rhine, with a mop of golden blond hair, bright, excited eyes, and a wild smile. With a look that says, you’re going to be trouble and I like it. A look of recognition, when there have been lifetimes of being unknown.

Saxa is taller than Andromache, her hair more unruly, her words coarser. She fights with more heart than brain, although Andromache can help with that. Andromache offers her sword to the small band of fighters Saxa is a part of, defending tribes threatened by the advancing Romans. How long, by then, has she been fighting Romans? How tired is she, already, of the insatiable maw of empire? She cannot say. Perhaps it is more important to her to recall the fierce blue of Saxa’s eyes, her zeal for life, her ready laugh.

There’s no seduction, no need for it. The same fire burns in each of them. They wrest release, each from the other, happy to lose themselves in one another.

The beginning of the story is inevitable, perhaps. Girl meets girl, girls become warrior-lovers, girls are torn apart by war. Saxa is taken prisoner, sold to slavery in Roman lands. Andromache, indignant, ablaze, sets off in pursuit.

Time is just as precious to an immortal and she has not had enough time with Saxa. She asks questions, with threats and bribes, until she knows enough to head to Neapolis. She needs to be quick. She doesn’t want her information to grow stale and her tempestuous Saxa is as likely to get herself killed as not.

She sustains herself on the journey with fantasies of rescue and reunion. Sometimes she remembers it that way. Instead, she is beaten to the rescue by a gladiator named Spartacus. She has not heard of him before but in Neapolis nothing else is talked of. The merchant she was told was transporting Saxa is dead and all the slaves escaped to join this gladiator in his slave rebellion.

Spartacus’s cause moves her. Of course it does, it’s doomed to failure. Even if the lure of Saxa was not leading her straight to the rebel camp, she thinks she would probably still have ended up here. She does like to kill Romans.  
She also wants to know, just how good is this gladiator?

It doesn’t take her too long to track the rebels. Even though the rumours that are swirling would put them everywhere from Rhegeum to Mutina, she searches the roads out from Neapolis and towards Capua, where the rebels are said to have sprung from, and she speaks to people who know the land well. Eventually, in the shadow of Vesuvius, she practically runs into Lugo and some other men from Saxa’s band out hunting in the woods, shouting to each other in the tongue of their homeland. She could easily kill them all without them realising they’ve given themselves away, but instead she smiles to herself and follows them back to their camp.

None of the men on guard notice that Andromache is not really part of the returning hunters, straggling in at the rear. The camp is a run-down temple. It seems to house hundreds of rebels and both the sound and smell would tell her that, even if her eyes didn’t. Her eyes, though, search for just one rebel.

She sees her loping easily across the temple precinct to greet her returning brothers. Saxa has Lugo in a headlock when she looks up and sees Andromache. For a moment, silence gets the better of her. Then Saxa takes off at a run and throws herself at Andromache. Andromache staggers, taking a step to steady them, her arms full of her wild warrior. Saxa tries to talk and kiss her at the same time and neither works for a while and they just spin and laugh until finally their mouths manage to stay pressed together and the kiss is long and thorough and jubilant.

“You came after me, you crazy bitch?” Saxa berates her.

“I thought you might need rescuing!”

“Ha! We got lucky. These bastards needed more warriors and our ship was ripe for the taking. Now we kill all the Romans we like.”

Saxa kisses her again, “I didn’t know how I would get back to you.”

“So you missed me?”

Saxa punches her arm, hard. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

The kiss that follows is equally brutal. Only interrupted by a nearby growl, “Who the fuck is this?”

“My woman,” Saxa asserts, “Andromache of Scythia.” Then gesturing dismissively she explains to Andromache, “A Gaul.”

“Scythia?” The Gaul demands, “Then what in hell brings you here?”

“My woman!” Saxa repeats, “Here to fight Romans.”

“Are you Spartacus?” Andromache asks, not sure the Gaul has understood much of Saxa’s speech, or vice versa.

“Crixus,” he says, as though it should mean something. She nods as if it does, “Honoured,” she murmurs, “Gratitude for the rescue of Saxa. Saved me some work.”

Crixus’s eyes widen, “Well, if you aren’t a fucking Roman and you can fight...” He has eyes on the axe slung across her back. Andromache just smiles. She’ll prove herself in time.

Saxa leads her off into the labyrinth beneath the temple. There’s a cellar where two women are resting. Saxa growls at them and they scarper.

Saxa is laughing as she lies down and pulls Andromache on top of her. Andromache revels in the press of their bodies, the feel of Saxa’s thigh between her own, her rough skin and tangled hair. For a moment it feels like an offering, soft, happy kisses, hands that still know their way round each other. And then they’re wrestling, rolling themselves into the cellar wall, grunting and resetting themselves, both desperate to overpower the other. Their builds are the same, their strength matched. The friction between their hands and bodies burns as they devour each other. The heat has them gasping. Andromache gets a hand between Saxa’s legs, her other arm coming down hard across Saxa’s chest, holding her down. Saxa traps Andromache, her legs tight around Andromache’s waist. She could probably roll them and get free, she probably will any minute, but for a moment she allows Andromache to press home, her fingers frenzied against Saxa’s core. She riles Saxa up, working her fast, causing her body to tense, her mouth and eyes fixed on Andromache, pleading with her. Andromache softens her hold on Saxa, moving her hand to caress her breasts, then her lips follow, kissing and sucking, her tongue working a nipple in time with her the thrust of her fingers below. Saxa is a writhing mess beneath her and Andromache smiles to herself as Saxa’s pleasure crests, she’s won this round, she thinks.

Immediately the thought crosses her mind she is flung hard onto her back. The strength and speed belying the fact that Saxa’s eyes are dazed, her mouth sloppy as it lands on Andromache’s, the kisses she bestows are loose and wanton. Slowly Saxa slides down Andromache’s body, greeting every peak and slope with an act of worship. Andromache finds herself too mesmerised to move. Her legs are spread, her knees bent, awaiting Saxa’s arrival and Saxa’s hands pressing her thighs still wider are a warning. Andromache doesn’t need it. Why would she be anywhere but here?

“You came for this?” Saxa asks, laughing again. She doesn’t wait for a reply before burying her face between Andromache’s thighs, her tongue darting and lashing, claiming her own victory over Andromache from the inside out. Andromache comes, her lungs heaving, her thighs trembling, her hands lost in Saxa’s hair. As she recovers, Saxa rubs herself against Andromache’s thigh until she comes a second time and then she falls gracelessly asleep on Andromache’s breast.

Even in sleep she appears to be smiling. Andromache doesn’t know what the journey in chains was like for Saxa, but she is beyond grateful that her enslavement was short-lived. At least for now. She kisses Saxa’s forehead, marvels at the peace she feels, wrapped up in this young woman she sees so much of herself in. She was right to come, she thinks, their story isn’t done.

In the evening light she wanders out and sits on the steps of the colonnade. There are men and women training, instructed by a Numidian man with the most beautiful posture Andromache has ever seen. She watches the practice, four pairs laughing and swearing as they push their bodies to the limit. She can tell though that half of them are paying too much mind to the look of their fighting, this fashion for battle as entertainment is unfathomable to Andromache. But there are many skilful fighters on show and she can see that their will to survive is strong and well-tested.

Saxa comes out to join her, passing her some wine, but can barely sit for a moment before leaping up to join the fray, throwing herself on the back of one of the fighters with a delighted yell as he goes down under her, caught by surprise.

Saxa’s victim rolls them, pushing her off with a strong thrust of his foot to her hip, leaving his back exposed to his original fighting partner. “Agron, guard fucking back,” the instructor shouts, and Agron rolls again so Saxa has to take the blow coming from above them but she sweeps out her leg to unbalance the second man. She celebrates, leaping to the feet as the two men heave in breaths on the ground, this second assailant seemingly undismayed at having landed directly on top of this Agron.

Saxa celebrates and Andromache is still laughing when the Numidian instructor’s shadow falls over her. His eyebrow is raised and there’s a wooden sword in his hand.

“I have steel,” she says.

“Let’s first see if you can handle it.”

She gets to her feet. He is tall, smooth and beautiful, as a statue. But she is close to him and feels his heat. She would like to see him sweat and roar. She reaches for the sword he offers her and takes her place on the sand.

Slowly she is introduced to all the rebels, by name and by sword. She can feel herself adjusting her style to match their own, to fit in with this new army, learning their strengths and weaknesses. She knows there are eyes upon her. Oenomaus watches her approvingly, using her to demonstrate with, to hone his skill against her own. They are well matched, Oenomaus fights calmly, his reactions are fast and his attacks are relentless. But he fights like a teacher, every move is a demonstration, he wants the onlookers to see the skill in his movements. Andromache mirrors him, matches him, but she keeps her secrets her own.

She has never met a group of fighters so enamoured with their own mythology. Half the men who once fought in the arena already seem to think of themselves as gods. They spend hours recounting and re-enacting old battles, telling their own stories and the stories of once glorious, fallen brothers. She hears of Barca and Auctus, Ulpius, Theokoles and Pericles in hushed and hallowed tones. Most of all, she hears of Spartacus, Bringer of Rain. One day she will learn the term, public relations, and she will remember these men.

Saxa favours a Celt known as Gannicus. He is bitter and virile and fucks as he fights, disillusioned and devastating. Andromache knows that feeling, that you can win and win and win and always be losing. She wonders if that is what Saxa is drawn to in both of them. Saxa does like a challenge.

Only Spartacus disavows his own legend. She sees how it offends him, and yet how he uses it. She admires that. She can see that he admires her too, that his practical, tactical mind is making plans for how she can best advantage his rebellion. She doesn’t mind for now. She joins his council, offers what stratagems she thinks he can best use and enjoys seeing his trust in her grow.

Most people don’t notice how unbearably vulnerable to death they are. The thing about being with these former gladiators, is that, fighting though they are, they embrace death. She loves Saxa because Saxa knows her death is near and she is reckless and defiant in the face of it. She refuses to let Andromache mourn her before her time. If she knew Andromache would likely outlive her a hundred score she would forbid her to mourn at all. For Andromache, Saxa is as sea air after a fever, biting and rousing. She holds Andromache in the present. She makes time an irrelevance.

There’s a party one night, although what has turned their usual drinking, fighting and fucking, into a party is probably only that the word ‘contest’ has been used out loud. Spartacus presides, naming the pairs for each contest. He makes Saxa and Mira fight together and Andromache appreciates that he is a wily bastard and she also can’t deny that it turns her on watching them triumph together. Saxa clearly feels the same by the way she smacks a kiss on Mira’s lips and grabs her crotch in celebration. Andromache whistles and Saxa abandons the surprised Mira and lands in Andromache’s lap. Andromache relishes the fierce, consuming fire Saxa lights within her.

Andromache is pitted against Gannicus and she can sense the light in his eyes reflect her own. Their smiles are wide as they circle each other and Andromache gnashes her teeth at him, taunting his assault. She is fast and strong, she never lets her momentum lessen, the force of each thrust and parry impelling the next. They are dancers in a deadly, unremitting dance. Gannicus is using her skill to show off his own, to whip up the crowd and she laughs as she anticipates him and knocks him off course time and again until at last the smile is wiped from his face. He growls at her in frustration.

“Now, we fight,” she teases him.

“Enough,” Spartacus intervenes, the light has dimmed as they have been fighting, with no victory in sight. She feels she could fight Gannicus all night, he is good for her skill and her stamina, but she lowers her fists. “A draw,” Spartacus declares. She smashes her foot in Gannicus’s stomach, winding him and sending him flying. She’s fine with a draw as long as Gannicus ends up on his backside.

As she resumes her place in the crowd, her chest still heaving from her efforts, she catches Oenomaus’s eye. She could swear there is a twinkle in it and the merest upturning of his lips. She lets Saxa wipe her down, scraping the sweat from her skin.

“Gannicus will need comfort,” Saxa observes.

“I think that’s what the wine is for.”

“Yes, that can help too.”

Andromache’s eyes drift back to Oenomaus.

“Perhaps we can do more than comfort,” she suggests, “Perhaps we can further aid reconciliation.”

Saxa follows her gaze and then bursts out laughing. She plants a noisy kiss on Andromache’s lips. “As you like,” she says.

They divide to conquer. Saxa to Gannicus, wrapping herself easily around him, while Andromache advances on Oenomaus. She can see he is pleased at her approach. He unfurls himself from his seat on the steps and leans back against a column.

“You fought well,” she offers as she reaches him, referring to his contest against Agron.

He nods, although they both know, Agron is not the foe to match him, “He improves,” Oenomaus says.

“You take little drink?” He asks.

“Not tonight,” There have been other nights, other years, best forgotten for now, “Our friends drink for us tonight,” she gestures to where Gannicus is currently dousing Saxa’s chest in wine.

“He wastes the wine.”

“I would hope he intends to taste it later.”

“I see, and you don’t object?”

“My thoughts turn in another direction.” She looks pointedly at him, “Perhaps you noticed.”

He inclines his head, almost shyly. She takes his broad, powerful hand. “It is a night to take pleasure in our friends, is it not?”

He smiles, his eyes fixed on hers, his hand tightens around hers. “Follow me,” she tells him.

She leads him to the bed she shares with Saxa, barely more than straw and blanket. The sounds of drinking and fucking flow through the temple. Andromache enjoys that she is just a small part of it. She lets Oenomaus back her against the wall, she lets her hands explore the expanse of his back and shoulders. She lets him lean down to kiss her. It is not a fight or tussle of any kind, it is a gift, soft and appreciative. The two of them are perhaps the best fighters of all the rebels, certainly the most experienced, and yet they are so different. As she knew they would be. Oenomaus’s strength has a different quality to her own, the weight of his survival beats out of him, an almost physical thing, that he carries in everything he does. He lends all of that heaviness to his kiss. She couldn’t say why this is what she wanted tonight, but it is. She wants to honour the respect that has grown between them.

Their bodies rise and fall together like the tide, rushing and relenting then returning together, over and over. They lose the few clothes they wear and Andromache draws them to the floor. She is wet when he reaches between her legs, his mouth maps her body, each touch delighting her. He has a beautiful cock, as cocks go, and she wants it inside her. She draws his mouth back to hers and wraps her legs around him, guiding him where she wants him. He is careful as he moves at her entrance, he holds the power of his body in check and only slowly begins to press in. She revels in the pressure building within her, “More” she instructs him. He doesn’t let her down. His movements are all grace and she surges under him, stealing her chance to let her hands appreciate the musculature of his back, his buttocks, his heavy thighs. He is silk and iron. She grasps at his waist as his thrusts lose rhythm and his lips claim hers. She feels herself nearing her climax as he pours himself into her, his groan is loud and almost shocking, in contrast to how contained he has been until this moment of release. She holds him tight against her, preventing a withdrawal before she is ready, her hips moving fast and harsh as she crashes into orgasm. From far away she hears him exclaim as she contracts around him.

He moves to rest beside her, his hands tracing her chest and down over her hip, not yet ready to sever their connection.

Into their peace falls Saxa and Gannicus, tumbling together into the little cellar, a riot of entwined limbs and luscious hair. Saxa negotiates them down, pulling Gannicus with her, folding herself into Andromache’s side. Oenomaus has tensed slightly beside her but Andromache places her hand over his reassuringly, leading it back to her breast where she most enjoys his fondling. Saxa leans in to kiss Andromache, then climbs over her to straddle Oenomaus.

“You're welcome in our bed,” she tells him, “but perhaps I need a taste?”

Gannicus groans from where he lies, clearly already well fucked, and now looking a little uncertain at these new proceedings. Oenomaus spares him a glance, and then, with a truly evil grin, “A taste is owing,” he agrees. Saxa whoops, an arm raised in victory, before she bends to him to take his mouth. This kiss is hot, because of course it is. Saxa is aggressive and Oenomaus responds with relish. When it ends, she moves her lips to his jaw, down his neck, across to his shoulders. Small, biting, kisses. “I taste it all,” she says as she goes. Oenomaus and Andromache laugh.

“She is fierce in her affection,” Gannicus says.

“It is appreciated,” Oenomaus agrees.

“She is in the room!” Andromache points out on Saxa’s behalf. Saxa looks up at Oenomaus but all she says is, “You taste of Andromache.” She seems quite pleased about the discovery.

Andromache is tired of watching so she pulls Saxa back to her, kissing her hard, relishing her smaller, flexible body as it welds itself to Andromache’s. Eventually they pull apart, their hands each finding the other’s centre, tracking the well-practiced route through the folds, to find the textured nub, the heart of their pleasure. They move slower now, allowing their desire to build. Saxa makes beautiful sounds, high and breathless. Oenomaus draws up behind her, moving a leg between Saxa’s legs, holding her open for Andromache’s hand. Gannicus, watching, mirrors Oenomaus and Andromache smiles in satisfaction as she delights in the press of Gannicus behind her, his cock sliding between her thighs, nudging at Saxa’s hand. She kisses the smirk from Saxa’s face. Saxa’s fingers intensify their attentions and Andromache feels herself nearing the precipice once more. She comes first, lost to all thought of Saxa’s pleasure as she chases her own. Perhaps she feels Gannicus reach over her to compensate but she cannot be sure.

She comes to her senses to the sound of heavy breathing all around her, Saxa is still pressed to her, shaking slightly and she thinks Oenomaus may be inside Saxa, Gannicus’s arm is still flung across her, his fingers teasing at Saxa’s core.

“Andromache!” Saxa cries out, searching for her kiss, and Andromache gives it, of course. She tightens her thighs around Gannicus’s cock and he groans desperately. Saxa’s kiss goes slack for a moment and she comes, writhing on Oenomaus’s cock and Gannicus’s hand. Then she is burrowing herself happy and sated in Andromache’s arms and the men are groaning out their orgasms, Gannicus’s come decorating Saxa’s hips.

It’s Gannicus who rouses himself first, he leaves the cellar returning with wine and cups and an old cape to wipe themselves with. He kisses both Andromache and Saxa as he passes out the cups. When he gets to Oenomaus he pauses and puts a hand to his shoulder, “We should share more often, brother,” he says.

Oenomaus gives him a disapproving look, but there’s a fondness to it, Andromache thinks. Gannicus' smile tells her that such a look is the best gift he could ever receive.

She sits up to drink her wine, her back to the wall, and gathers Saxa to her, lets Saxa’s head rest on her shoulder and lets herself believe this is the right thing, for now, at least, to be with these rebel fighters, this cause, these hearts. It’s not always easy to know where she is supposed to fit in the world, but for as long as it lasts, she thinks, this is right.


End file.
